


An Apology

by littlegreyfish



Series: Consulting Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:43:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlegreyfish/pseuds/littlegreyfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell Sherrinford I apologise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apology

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a fanworks challenge I was in. Regarding Mycroft's relationship with Sherlock when they were younger. I hope you enjoy it.

It was raining when Mycroft stepped outside of his home on the edge of London to head to the city. His car was waiting for him in the drive, and he had a very important meeting to attend with directors of several divisions. Boring. He would have that meeting wrapped up in forty-five minutes; then he would head to the Diogenes.    
  
He almost squished it. It was a small bag just outside his door, tucked up under the porch covering to get out of the rain. The bag was blue, and the paper sticking out of the end was a soft green colour. When Mycroft picked up the bag, he found it was heavier than it looked. He did not worry about security, if anything was a threat, it would have been detected seven times before it made it past the gates. Then ten times more on the way up the drive. What was in the bag was safe, he was sure.    
  
He tucked it close to his body under the umbrella as he strolled down the steps and into the waiting black car. His assistant was already waiting, going away at her phone as always. It was not until they were past the gates that the elder Holmes decided to peer inside the bag.    
  
What was inside made him first catch his breath, then smile. Genuinely smile. There was a pair of oval spectacles, fake, a rolled up brown trilby, softened with age, and a journal, well worn, and obviously very written in. This bag held Sherrinford Holmes.    
  


* * *

  
  
The stout little Mycroft Holmes, only about eleven years old, pulled his father’s old trilby over his mousy brown hair and crept his way into the sitting room, where mummy was reading. He had to tilt his face up to see beneath the brim, but when he slid in through the doorway, he could see his mummy was doing her best to pretend as though she did not see him. She always loved playing along.   
  
“Mummy, we need to talk.” He deepened his voice and stood as tall as he could, which was about 137 centimeters. Just above average. He could see his mother do her best to stifle a giggle a she looked up.  
  
“Yes, Mycroft dear?” She smiled warmly, forgetting to call him by the proper name for about the third time since he began this game.   
  
“Mummy, it is Sherrinford. You  must call me Sherrinford!” He slipped character only to correct his mummy on this mistake.   
  
“Sorry. Yes, Sherrinford dear?” Her smile broadened.   
  
“We need to talk about Sherlock. He is always getting into things that do not belong to him. Mycroft asked me to tell you that he intends to start setting traps. At least then Sherlock would stay away from the butterfly collection.” Mycroft took the plastic spectacles off his nose and polished one fake lense. His mother waited to speak until they had been replaced, as Mycro- Sherrinford liked.   
  
“Sherrinford, my darling, Sherlock is only three years old. It is to be expected that he is precocious and curious.” She turned serious, though the crinkle around her eye gave away that she was still just playing along. “I’ll be having no traps around my house, dear, unless you and Mycroft both want your statistics books taken away. I know how much you love them.”   
  
The thought almost caused Mycroft to balk. Take away his statistics volumes? Surely mummy was not serious. That was... well. This required a new tactic. He could not very well have another one of his butterfly cases almost pulled off the table by a ‘precocious and curious’ toddler.   
  
“Perhaps you are correct, mummy. I shall try to figure out something a little more humane.” And with that, Mycroft tipped his hat and slinked out the door.   
  
Up in his room, glasses on the table, but trilby merely pushed back above his brow, Mycroft scribbled furiously inside a brown canvas notebook. He catalogued the failed meeting with mummy, and began devising a new plan to prevent his brother from the assured destruction that would ensue if he were left to his own devices.   
  
The notebook was a perfect account of Mycroft’s adventures as Sherrinford Holmes. He had created this persona when he was nine, just after Sherlock was born, to be a mask whenever he needed to confront mummy about something regarding his new younger brother. It was not that Mycroft did not love Sherlock. He did, very dearly; but what his mother called curious, Mycroft saw as destructive. He wanted to go about an intelligent way of rallying this behavior, and perhaps using it for good.   
  
Sherrinford stopped appearing as Mycroft turned thirteen, but the glasses, the trilby, and the notebook remained in a drawer in his desk until he was ready to move away to uni. Mycroft had wanted to bring the trilby with him, as it now fit him, and it would be a nice reminder of home, and of how ‘precocious’ his brother could be. But when he went to retrieve it, the drawer was empty. The glasses, hat, and notebook were all gone. Of course, it had to be Sherlock.   
  
Three screaming matches, a ten year old Sherlock trying to push Mycroft over a table, and one very upset mummy later, Mycroft had finished packing his things and left with only a goodbye to mummy. Though he was quite sure Sherlock had something to do with it, Mycroft never did figure out what had happened to Sherrinford Holmes.   
  


* * *

  
  
Mycroft realized he had begun tearing up when the stinging in his throat cut through his memories.   
  
“Sir? What is it?” His assistant had been staring at him for several minutes, and had noticed the change in her bosses usually cool demeanor.   
  
“This... is an apology.” The bag full of Sherrinford Holmes could only mean one thing: Sherlock. And seeing as how Sherlock had fallen from the top of a hospital three years prior, it was a rather difficult notion to wrap his head around.   
  
He pulled the notebook from its place at the bottom of the bag and flipped it open, the pages falling neatly on either side of the ribbon bookmark. Inside were only three lines, scrawled in the familiar scratch of Sherlock Holmes:   
  
_44.8206° N, 20.4622° E  
This Sunday, March 15th_ _  
  
Tell Sherrinford I apologise._


End file.
